Rodney walked out of the office building, glowered at the dreary, overcast sky and then up and down the street. No Maxie or White Hat, he noted and felt his shoulders relax.
"One less thing to worry about," he muttered as he joined the crowd walking down the street. "Now I just need to find Second Street and hope someone remembers seeing Carlton."
He stopped at the corner and looked up and down the street and then up at the sign on the corner. "Okay, you're on Seventh. The north-south running streets are numbered. East-west are names," he muttered and glanced west. "So Second Street must be that way."
He crossed the street and walked down the pavement, noting the diminishing street numbers as he walked. He was at Fifth Street when he noticed the mix of salt water and tar in the air again.
"Great," Rodney grumbled as the harbor smells increased. "The waterfront." The headline about the dead girl rose in his memory. "Because nothing bad ever happens around the docks," he sarcastically muttered.
It started to drizzle as he neared the next intersection. "Oh, that's just perfect. What else can go wrong today?"
The woman standing next to him at the corner glanced at him, shook her head, and opened a black umbrella as she crossed the street.
Rodney pulled down his hat, turned up his collar, and crossed the street several paces behind the woman. He hurried the remaining three blocks until he reached Second Street and stopped at the corner.
Brick buildings lined both sides of the wide street. While the upper levels still retained the dull red color of the bricks, the lower three floors were darker, with most of the red hidden under a layer of grime. The buildings stood ten to fifteen stories high, with a few restaurants, bodegas, and small service shops at street level. The windows in the floors above were spaced too close together to be offices, and Rodney assumed they were apartments. Many windows on the upper floors were open despite the steady rain.
Rodney looked up and down the street, watching the women and a few men bustle in and out of the various storefronts, but didn't see any indication of the car accident Davies had described.
"Now what?" he grumbled, staring first in one direction and then the other. "The clinic is that way." He pointed to his right. "If Carlton Blake is anything like Carson Beckett, he would probably try to visit his regular patients regardless of who might be looking for him."
Rodney turned to his right and started walking. Even if he wasn't staying at the apartment on Hudson Street, he thought as he walked, chances were he was lying low somewhere nearby.
At the next corner, Rodney saw a bent lamp post across the street and the building behind it missing a few bricks.
"Finally."
He ignored the grumbled comments from passers-by as he knelt and examined the road. Even though the pavement was wet, the long trails of skidmarks leading to the damaged building were still visible. He waited for the signal to change, then hurried across the street, stood next to the bent lamp post, and tried to picture what the scene looked like the night of the accident.
Heavy trucks and a few cars passed up and down the street. Rodney glanced from the cars with their heavy chrome and steel bumpers to the building and shook his head.
"Probably did more damage to the building than the car," he muttered.
There was a break in the traffic, and Rodney spotted a shoe repair shop and a dry cleaner on the first floor of the building across the street. A narrow alley separated that building from the next one, housing a tailor and dry goods store.
Rodney knelt and glanced up and down the street. "Carlton is here." He bent forward as if assisting someone on the ground. "He sees Creepy Guy across the street. Isn't sure if Creepy Guy is really looking for him but doesn't want to take the chance."
Rodney stood and looked up and down the street, then down the alley on his side of the street toward the waterfront. "Carlton wants to get away before Creepy Guy sees him, but according to Davies, police cars and ambulances are blocking the road. He can't get back to the area near the clinic without Creepy Guy seeing him."
Rodney turned to his right and froze when he saw someone dart into one of the shops. He backed against the damaged brick wall and watched the shop.
Watch your back trail, Rodney reminded himself in a voice that sounded an awful lot like Sheppard. Why was someone following him? he wondered. Was it White Hat and Maxie? Someone working for Johnny P? Someone else looking for Carlton?
Rodney grimaced. Was it someone else he hadn't even met yet with a grudge?
If he ever ran into his doppelgänger in this universe, he had a few choice things to say about his life decisions.
A woman and a young girl exited the shop a few minutes later. To Rodney's eye, they seemed normal, no backward glances at the shop, and they weren't in a rush to escape.
"Maybe you only saw someone trying to get out of the rain, Rodney told himself and relaxed.
He gave the shop a last, measured glance, then turned back to the problem at hand. "If Carlton wanted to escape without Creepy Guy noticing, what were his options?"
Rodney peered down the alley beside the damaged building, saw it dead-ended, and glanced to his left. "Davies said a police car and the ambulance were blocking traffic." He turned and looked to his right. "Which means he would have had to go back up the street."
Rodney nodded, crossed the street, and wandered back up Second Street.
More mom-and-pop shops lined his side of the street. He strolled back up the street, trying to look casual as he periodically glanced behind him checking for tails. He didn't see anyone and stopped outside a bodega on the corner. A small sign on the door proclaimed the store's business hours, and Rodney smiled when he saw that the store would have been open when the accident happened.
"Someone must have seen Carlton run past." Rodney felt in his jacket pocket for the photo of Blake and opened the door.
A bell attached to the door rang as Rodney entered. An older man behind the counter looked up from reading his newspaper, watching Rodney wander over to one of the shelves.
Rodney nodded to the man, then glanced at the shelves of canned goods, the rack of magazines, and the assorted candy jars lined along the counter. The shop was small but clean, with the various grocery items stacked neatly on the shelves.
A woman about the same age as the shopkeeper gave Rodney a furtive glance and put the brimming basket of items in her hand on the counter.
The shopkeeper set aside his paper and smiled at the woman. "Anything else you need today, Sylvia?" he asked as he rang up her purchases.
Sylvia glanced at Rodney and shook her head. "Just this for today, Sid."
Sid placed the last item in a paper bag and said, "Two dollars and a quarter."
Sylvia handed over a couple of bills and a coin and accepted the bag in return. She clutched the bag to her chest, scurried around Rodney, and left the shop.
"Help you?" Sid asked Rodney with a wary expression.
"I hope so," Rodney replied, walking toward the counter.
He dipped his hand into his jacket pocket but froze when Sid's right hand disappeared below the counter. Rodney pulled out the photo and held it in his raised hands. "I just want to ask a couple of questions."
Sid's empty hand reappeared, and Rodney inched toward the counter, holding out the photo. "There was a car accident down the street a few nights ago."
"I remember," Sid grunted.
The swinging door behind the counter opened, and a woman about Rodney's age pushed through the door, studying a pad of paper in her hand.
"Dad, where did you put the -" the woman started to ask but stopped when she saw Rodney.
"Not now, Martha," Sid said. He kept one eye on Rodney as he tried to push the woman back through the door.
Martha stopped next to Sid and glared at Rodney. "You try anything in here, and you will have half the neighborhood down your neck," she threatened.
"Martha, calm down," Sid said.
"No, Dad," Martha retorted. "Someone needs to start standing up to these hustle artists."
Hustle artist? Rodney thought, glancing down at his damp trench coat. He shook his head and slapped the photo down on the counter. "Look. I don't know what you think I am, but I can assure you I'm not here to rob you, threaten you, or hurt you. I just need a little information."
Martha sniffed and crossed her arms over her chest.
Rodney sighed. "I'm trying to find someone." He pointed to the photo on the counter. "Do either of you remember seeing him the night of the car accident?"
Sid picked up the photo and studied it as Martha continued to scowl.
"What did he do to you?" Sid asked, looking up from the photo.
"Umm, nothing," Rodney replied, rubbing his forehead. "His sister hired me to find him. He's been missing for a week, and she's worried about him. Someone told me they saw him around here the night of the accident."
"I don't remember him." Sid handed the photo to Martha.
Martha glowered at Rodney, then took the photo.
"I might have seen him," Martha grudgingly admitted.
Rodney felt his heart leap. Was he close? he wondered. If he found Carlton, he'd get paid, making Talia happy. There might even be enough left over that he could pay off Johnny P, making all three of them happy. And maybe then he could start trying to figure out how to get back to his universe.
He leaned on the counter and tapped the photo. "You're sure?"
"No," Martha replied. "I've seen someone hanging around here the last few days. He tries to look like the rest of the poor souls begging for food or a few coins, but he's a bit too clean and polite to fit in with the usual ones we have around here."
"Was he around here the night of the accident?"
"He might have been," Martha replied, holding out the photo to Rodney.
"Did you see -"
The bell over the door tinkled, and Rodney saw a burly young man wearing a pea coat and work boots walking toward him. The young man glared at Rodney and clenched his fists.
"Sid. Martha," the young man said with a nod to each. He glared at Rodney. "Boy across the street saw this guy coming in here. He giving you trouble?"
The man cracked his knuckles, and Rodney gulped.
Martha glanced at Rodney with a tiny smile that said 'told you'. "He's okay, Tommy," she said to the burly young man. She waved the photo at Rodney. "If that's the guy I'm thinking of, he's been sleeping rough somewhere nearby. He's been in here a few times, turning in glass bottles for enough change to buy a sandwich."
"Okay. Umm, thanks," Rodney replied. He reached for the photo, but Tommy's hand got there first.
He studied the photo and grunted. "What's he done?" he asked, handing Rodney the photo.
"Why does everyone I talk to jump to the conclusion he must be some sort of criminal?" Rodney grumbled. "He didn't do anything," he said to Tommy. "His sister is looking for him."
"Whatever," Tommy replied. "I seen him down on Dock Street for the last few days, going in and out of one of the flophouses."
"Dock Street?" Rodney parroted as he pocketed the photo.
"Dock Street," Martha said, pointing at the wall behind her. "You know where the docks are?"
Of course it is, Rodney thought.
"Umm, thanks," he said to Martha.
He nodded to Martha and Sid, edged around Tommy, and left the store.
Second Street was only a couple of blocks from the waterfront. Rodney turned right at the corner and tried not to gag as the smell of rotten fish and garbage overwhelmed him as he neared the water.
Dock Street lived up to its name. Long warehouses made of brick and wood lined the street facing the water. Two large ships sat at anchor at one end of the street. The water slapped the end of the piers, and Rodney heard the dull thuds as the ship's hulls knocked against the side of the dock. He watched as a crane hoisted a pallet of crates off one of the ships and deposited it on the ground. There were several shouted orders as the crane released the pallet, and men ran from the warehouse, picked up the crates, and carried them inside the building.
A group of five men leaned against a pylon, smoking cigarettes and watching the men work. They all wore what Rodney was beginning to think of as dock worker chic: denim trousers, heavy work boots, and dark-colored watch coats. Two of the men wore wool watch caps. The others were bare-headed.
"Look at this one," one of the men said, nudging his nearest companion and pointing at Rodney.
"Don't look like he belongs around here," one of the others agreed.
Rodney grimaced, glanced at the men unloading the ships, and decided to try his luck with the loafers.
"Have any of you seen this man around here the last few days?" he asked, showing the group Carlton's photo.
Two of the men looked Rodney up and down, stubbed out their cigarettes, and walked away. Two others glanced at the photo and shook their heads. Rodney watched them leave, then turned to the man who had initially pointed him out to his friends.
"What about you?" Rodney asked. "Have you seen him hanging around here?"
The man took the photo, squinted at it, and shrugged. "Try the Exchange," he grunted. He pointed at a tall, white building two blocks away and handed Rodney the photo.
"Thanks," Rodney said to the man.
"He don't belong down here, neither," the man replied. "We got enough trouble of our own around here without your type bringing down more."
The man dropped his cigarette, crushed the still-burning end under his heel and followed his friends inside the warehouse without a backward glance.
"My type?" Rodney muttered.
He stuffed the photo into his coat pocket and walked down the street toward the stately building looming over the water a few blocks away. He was two blocks from the unloading ships when the warehouses gave way to more traditional office buildings.
Definitely seen better days, Rodney thought as he passed a building with a boarded-up storefront at street level and a weathered sign near the door stating there were vacancies in the building.
"Offices or rooms?" Rodney wondered.
Cars and smaller delivery trucks replaced the heavier cargo trucks Rodney had seen near the warehouses. He stopped at the next corner, waiting for a break in the traffic, and felt a shiver down his spine.
He casually surveyed the people around him and shook his head when he saw nothing suspicious. "Or, after everything with Tommy, you're just getting paranoid."
He crossed the street, passed a bar and a diner, and stopped in front of a ten-story high marble building fronted by tall fluted columns. A huge coach lamp hung above the recessed carved wooden door from a tarnished brass chain. Rodney noticed one of the glass panels in the lamp was missing, and another was cracked. A metal fire escape crawled up the building on the two sides facing alleys.
"Some sort of customs house?" Rodney wondered, glancing from the building to the water.
He saw the word EXCHANGE etched into the cracked marble over the door. There were traces of another word, but time had weathered it to the point it was no longer legible. No real mystery why the locals call it Exchange, Rodney thought as he studied the faded writing.
The heavy-looking door opened, and Rodney leaned against the outer wall, trying to look like he belonged there as two men wearing the now-familiar watch caps and dark pea coats walked outside. The men glanced at Rodney, who held his breath.
He didn't need any more close calls like his encounter with Tommy, Rodney thought, as the men gave him a careful once-over.
The two men studied him a moment longer, then one slapped the other on the shoulder, and they turned down the alley and disappeared.
Rodney blew out the breath he was holding and leaned against the wall as he tried to blend in with the rest of the neighborhood.
Over the next hour, Rodney watched a parade of scruffy men entering or leaving the building, but none were Carlton Blake. Most wore the same flannel shirts, denim trousers, and heavy work boots as the dockworkers he had seen unloading the ships. A few gave him a wary once-over. Most ignored him. One young man, probably no more than seventeen or eighteen years old, stopped in front of Rodney and held out his hand.
"Any spare change?" he asked with a hopeful expression.
Rodney mentally weighed his options. Would it be better to give him something or ignore him? he wondered. Which would attract less attention?
Even after several surveys of the surrounding streets and buildings, he still felt he was being watched and didn't want to draw even more attention to himself by doing the unexpected. Rodney glanced at the thin young man, suspected he hadn't eaten very much recently, and felt a shiver up his spine at the idea of missing a few meals.
"Umm, here," Rodney muttered, dipping his hand into his trouser pocket. He found a few coins and dropped them into the young man's hand.
The young man clutched the coins in a tight fist and ran off without a backward glance. "You're welcome," Rodney grumbled and went back to watching the building and the street.
The drizzle eventually petered out, much to Rodney's relief, and the fetid breeze off the water died down as the sun set. Something that sounded like a train horn blared at the other end of Dock Street, and it wasn't long before the number of cars and people milling along the pavement outside the bar and diner increased.
Rodney glanced at his watch and then at the darkening sky. He hadn't seen any sign of Carlton Blake, and despite his best efforts, he hadn't seen anyone who appeared to be following him either.
"Can't stand here all night," he told himself, pushing away from the wall. "If he hasn't come out, hopefully, that means Carlton is still inside."
He was a few steps from the carved wooden door when he felt a hand curl around his arm and jumped.
"Hey!" Rodney exclaimed and tried to pull his arm free.
"Relax, sugar," the woman hanging on his arm said with a coquettish smile. "I just wanted to see if you were interested in a good time." She winked at him. "You've been standing there so long, I thought you was waiting for me."
Rodney grimaced when he realised she had been watching him. "Umm, no," he said, extracting his arm from her tight grip.
"Whatever you say, sugar," the woman replied with a shrug. "When you change your mind, you know where to find me." She gave him another wink and smile, then walked down the pavement toward the bar.
The door behind him opened, and Rodney hurried inside the Exchange building before anyone else accosted him. He stopped short as the heavy door closed behind him and stared at the marble floors and ornate ceiling.
The atrium was twice the size of the gateroom in Atlantis. Fresco paintings of masted sailing ships docked along the waterfront, loading and unloading cargo, covered the ceiling. A wide marble staircase stood to Rodney's right, while a series of alcoves and small rooms lined the left-hand wall.
The atrium smelled of stale cigarette smoke and greasy food, and every sound was magnified thanks to the marble floors and high ceiling.
Definitely some sort of trade hall or commodities exchange at one point, Rodney thought as he looked around the room. So how was he supposed to find Carlton in what looked like a converted office building?
A woman stood near one of the alcoves, running her hand up and down the arm of the man in front of her. Three more men sat along a bench next to the staircase, watching the man and woman talk and arguing amongst themselves about something in a language Rodney couldn't understand. Several more men lay curled into the alcoves, asleep.
Rodney walked over to the men sitting on the bench with the photo in his hand. "Have any of you seen -" he said but stopped when the men raised their hands, shook their heads, and refused to look at him as they continued their argument.
Rodney considered asking the man and woman on the other side of the room but nixed the idea when the couple left the building. He then debated waking some of the men sleeping in the alcoves but decided against it. Chances were they wouldn't know if Carlton had a room in the building or not, he decided.
A long marble counter with a tarnished brass grate stood opposite the door at the end of the atrium. A man about Sheppard's age with greasy blond hair and a none-too-clean shirt sat behind the grate, smoking a cigarette as he read a magazine and ignoring everyone else in the room. Rodney walked across the room to the counter, hunching his shoulders as his footsteps echoed around the atrium. He glanced behind him, expecting to see everyone else in the room staring at him for making such a racket, and was surprised to note no one seemed to be paying much attention to him or anyone else now that the man and woman were gone.
No one would sneak up on him, at least, he thought as he crossed the long atrium.
Rodney stopped in front of the man behind the counter and waited for him to look up from the magazine. After several seconds, when the man continued to ignore him, Rodney pushed the photo through the space at the bottom of the grate.
"I'm looking for this guy. Have you seen him?"
The man's gaze flitted from the magazine to the photo. He shrugged and pushed the photo back toward Rodney with nicotine-stained fingers. "Six-eleven," he mumbled, never looking up from the magazine.
"Six-eleven," Rodney parroted. He picked up the picture and walked back to the staircase. "Carlton couldn't have taken a room on the second floor?" he grumbled as he started up the stairs.
The ornate marble staircase gave way to industrial concrete once he was past the third floor. Only a few of the stairwell lights worked on the higher floors, and Rodney tried not to think about what he might be stepping in or on as he puffed his way past the fourth and fifth floors.
He reached the sixth floor, paused to catch his breath, and opened the heavy metal door. He closed the door and wrinkled his nose at the smell of mildew and stale beer.
When you come down with some sort of deadly disease, you'll know where you caught it, Rodney grumbled to himself as he walked down a dimly lit, uncarpeted hallway with closed doors every few meters.
He peered at the faded numbers painted on the doors, found number eleven at the end of the hall across from a communal bathroom, and knocked.
Rodney waited a few seconds, then knocked again. "Hello?" he called.
The door to number eleven opened a crack, and Rodney saw a blue eye peering at him.
"Go away," the familiar male voice told him and pushed the door closed.
Even though he knew Carlton would look and sound like Carson, it took Rodney a few precious seconds to accept the reality.
"No! Wait!" Rodney said, blocking the closing door with his foot. "Are you Carlton Blake?"
The man hissed out a breath. "Shh! Keep your voice down!" the voice replied, and Rodney did a double take when he didn't hear Carson's Scots accent.
"You are Carlton Blake, aren't you?" Rodney pressed.
"Who's asking?" Blake demanded.
"I'm a …" Rodney pressed his lips into a thin line. I'm a scientist trapped in an alternate universe, and I just want to get back to my life, he thought. "I'm a private detective," he said to Carlton. "Your sister hired me to find you."
To Rodney's relief, the door stopped crushing his foot, and he heard a chain lock removed. The door opened, and Rodney stepped back as Carlton stuck his head through the doorway, glanced up and down the hall, then pulled Rodney into the room. Carlton quickly closed the door, replaced the chain lock, twisted the deadbolt, turned his back to the door, and crossed his arms over his chest.
"You said my sister hired you?" Carlton asked.
Rodney took his hat off and nodded as he walked a few steps into the room and looked around.
The only furnishings were a neatly made bed in one corner and a wooden table in the opposite corner with a single chair pushed against it. A battered satchel lay on one end of the table, and a man's black overcoat hung off the chair's ladder back. He saw the half-eaten sandwich and a liquor bottle on the table, and Rodney realised he must have interrupted Carlton's dinner. The faint outline of the fire escape was visible through the dirty window in the wall opposite the door.
Rodney dropped his hat on the table and turned back to the door. Carlton's hair was uncombed, his white shirt and brown trousers needed washing, and he had at least a three-day growth of beard, but he still looked like Carson, right down to the frown lines across his forehead.
As with his initial meetings with Talia, Johnny, and Roland, standing in the dingy room staring at a man who looked like Carson Beckett but wasn't made Rodney's head hurt.
He stared at the water-stained ceiling. He couldn't take much more of this, he decided. Meeting people he knew but who didn't know him. He glanced at Carlton and walked over to the dirty window. Thanks to the layer of grime covering the glass, he couldn't see much other than the fire escape.
"Now would be a good time, Sheppard," he muttered, rubbing his aching head.
"Hey, you aren't about to die on me, are you?" Carlton asked.
Rodney dropped his hand and shook his head. "You would not believe me if I told you the kind of day I've had so far." He leaned against the wall and glanced at Carlton. "But I did it," he added. "I actually found you."
Carlton dropped his arms and walked over to the table. He took a swig from the bottle and shook his head.
"Not been a P.I. long, I take it?" he asked.
Rodney twisted his lips into a wry smile. "You have no idea."
Carlton grunted, took a bite of the sandwich, and washed it down with another swallow from the bottle.
"Hang on." Carlton set the bottle on the table and turned to Rodney. "How did you find me? I haven't left this room in two days."
"The old man you helped the night of the car accident," Rodney replied. "He heard we were looking for you and told us what happened."
Carlton grimaced and took another drink.
"Hey," Rodney said. He reached for Carlton's arm but pulled his hand back when Blake flinched. "He was only trying to return the favor. He was grateful for what you did for him."
Carlton sighed. "He needed help. I couldn't just … I needed to help him," he said, taking another bite from the sandwich.
Yep, just like Carson, Rodney thought with a tiny smile.
"What?" Carlton asked.
Rodney waved his hand. "Nothing."
Carlton studied him for a moment, then shrugged. "Why does Elspeth -"
Carlton dropped the sandwich and jerked his head toward the door.
"What's -" Rodney started to ask, but Carlton scowled and held a finger to his lips.
At the same time, Rodney heard a creak and footsteps outside the door.
"You were followed?" Carlton angrily hissed.
Rodney stared at the door. "No, no. I was careful. I didn't see anyone."
Carlton snorted.
"Hey!" Rodney exclaimed, and Carlton hissed him into silence.
"Unbelievable," Blake muttered.
Carlton grabbed the overcoat and shrugged into it, then draped the satchel bandolier-style over his shoulder, all the while glaring at Rodney.
Heavy pounding shook the door. "Open up, Blake," a male voice ordered. "We know you're in there. Mister Kosta would like a word."
Rodney stared at the door, wide-eyed. "This is not happening."
"Thanks to you, it is," Carlton retorted. "And we need to get out of here." He took another long pull from the liquor bottle, then shoved the half-empty bottle into Rodney's hand.
Rodney glanced at the four roses adorning the label, shrugged, took a pull from the bottle, and nearly gagged on the burn.
"Where do you think we're going to go," he croaked once the bourbon burn eased. "The bad guys are blocking the only exit."
"Not the only exit." Carlton scrambled over to the window and pushed it open. He straddled the window ledge and glanced at Rodney. "You coming?"
"You're kidding, right? Have you seen that fire escape? I doubt it would hold one of us, much less two."
Carlton squeezed through the window, and Rodney heard a metallic clang as Blake landed on the fire escape. "Stay if you want," he replied. "But you're likely to end up with a bad case of lead poisoning if you do."
"Shoot the locks," the voice on the other side of the door ordered.
A moment later, a shot rang out, and a bullet whizzed past Rodney, embedding itself in the wooden table.
Rodney stared at the hole only centimeters from his hand, then at the door.
A second shot made another hole in the door, and an eye peered into the room.
"Thought you could hide from Mister Kosta, did you?" the voice called through the door.
Rodney heard the gun cocking again and hurried over to the window. "You're either going to be shot or fall to your death," he muttered, glancing out the window at the rickety metal fire escape. "Or possibly both."
He took another drink, ordered himself not to choke on the burn, and stepped onto the window ledge.
Rodney dropped the short distance from the window to the fire escape as another shot rang out inside the apartment. He grabbed both sides of the metal railing and squeezed his eyes shut as the landing shook and swayed.
"Please don't fail, please don't fail," he muttered.
The fire escape shuddered again, and Rodney realised the continued shaking was due to someone moving farther down his escape route.
"Please let it be Carlton and not more goons coming up after them." Rodney opened his eyes and peered over the railing, trying to see how far below him Carlton was.
At least he tried to find Carlton. Thick fog had rolled in while he'd been inside the Exchange building, and he couldn't see more than a couple of meters in any direction.
"This just keeps getting better and better," he grumbled. He leaned over the railing and peered into the fog. "Carton?" he called. "Wait!"
The footsteps below him faltered, then started again.
"Oh, come on," Rodney said. "I'm trying to help!"
Water dripped on him, and Rodney grimaced as he wiped the water off his face and out of his hair. "Just what I need, to get sick on top of everything else."
He was debating whether or not he had time to go back for his hat when a shot rang out above him, followed by the crash of splintering wood.
"Remember, Boss wants him alive," a male voice growled. "For now, anyways."
Rodney didn't wait to see what happened next. He lunged for the steep metal steps and was halfway to the next landing when he heard a second voice above him say, "He ain't here."
"Someone was. I saw 'em," the first voice replied. "Check the fire escape."
Rodney gulped and ran faster.
The metal rungs were slick thanks to the drizzle and the cloying fog, and Rodney slipped more than once as he raced down the steps.
He was past the fourth floor when he felt a vibration through the metal, looked up, and saw the landing above him shake. There was a faint outline of a man leaning over the railing above him, and a moment later, a shot rang out.
Rodney nearly lost his grip on the railing when the bullet ricocheted off the metal where his hand had been moments before.
Metal squealed below him, and Rodney tried to look down into the foggy gloom. "Carlton?" he called.
There was no answer below, but he heard the man above him grunting as he charged down the fire escape.
"Nowhere to go," the man above him said. "Be better for you if you came peaceful-like."
Rodney snorted and ran down the remaining steps as fast as he could.
The zig-zagging stairs ended on the second floor, but a short ladder hung off the last landing. It was already extended, and Rodney saw a dark shape running toward the alley mouth.
"Carlton!" he shouted.
The shape paused, then ran out of the alley.
Rodney scowled and gripped the wet rungs. He didn't need this, he mentally complained as he climbed down the ladder. It's not like he asked to be here, chasing after a man he knew but didn't know through the foggy streets of an unknown city.
He was still a few meters from the ground when another shot rang out, and the bullet pinged off the metal centimeters from his hand. Rodney lost his grip on the ladder, and his yelp of surprise turned into a groan as he hit the ground hard and fell against a dumpster.
"Hurry up!" the man above him shouted. "I think I got him!"
Rodney rolled to his feet, wincing as his ankle throbbed, and ran toward the alley mouth. He stopped, looked left, then right, but couldn't see much, thanks to the fog. Dim lights glowed onto the street from the bar and the diner to his left, giving him enough light to see men and women milling on the pavement.
"Hey!" a woman's voice exclaimed.
"Watch where you goin'!" a man growled.
Rodney turned toward the commotion and saw someone pushing through the crowd near the bar.
"Carlton! Wait!" Rodney called, chasing after Blake. "I'm trying to help!"
A he neared the bar, Rodney made out Carlton's battered satchel bobbing ahead of him through the gloom and ran faster.
A group of longshoremen stumbled out of the bar, laughing and slapping each other on the back. "O-ho!" one of the men shouted when Carlton ran into him. "What's your hurry, boyo?"
Rodney ignored his aching foot and ran toward the disturbance. He caught up with Carlton just as Blake broke free from the longshoremen.
"Hey, stop," Rodney panted and grabbed Carlton's elbow. "Where are you going?"
"Let go of me," Carlton ordered, pulling out of Rodney's grip. "This whole mess is your fault. No one knew where I was until you blundered in."
The men and women around them stopped what they were doing and stared at Rodney and Carlton. "Hey, boys, looks like the entertainment has arrived," one of the men shouted and slapped his buddy on the back.
"Well, don't just stand there," another one said, pushing Carlton toward Rodney. "Hit him already."
Rodney glared at the men, saw most of them were already drunk, then glanced back down the street toward the Exchange. He saw a shape run out of the alley with the fire escape and grimaced.
"Come on," Rodney ordered, pushing Carlton through the crowd and down the block.
The men, hoping for a fight, groaned and jeered as Rodney and Carlton ran down the street.
Once they were out of the crowd, Carlton tried to stop, but Rodney pushed him from behind. "Keep going," he ordered.
Carlton glowered but kept pace as Rodney jogged to the intersection, glanced behind them, then turned right. At the next corner, he pushed Carlton across the street and led him up another block.
They were far enough away from the docks that the streets were better lit, though the fog limited Rodney's line of sight. Shops and restaurants lined the street, and the men and women walking along the pavement dressed in suits and dresses instead of the rough denim and plaid of the dock workers or the low-cut dresses of the ladies back near the Exchange building.
Rodney slowed to a walk, pulled on Carlton's satchel strap, slowing Blake, and checked their back trail. He didn't think anyone was following them, but he wouldn't make that mistake again.
"I think we lost them," he muttered to Carlton. "Act casual. We don't want to draw any more attention."
Carlton snorted but did as Rodney suggested.
They stopped at the next corner, and Rodney casually looked over his shoulder. He still didn't see anyone following them and nodded. "This way," he said to Carlton and crossed the street.
"Where are we going?" Carlton hissed as they walked.
"Back to my office," Rodney replied.
Carlton froze, and Rodney heard the men around them grumble as they dodged around him.
"It's safe," Rodney told him, tugging Carlton's arm. "Trust me."
Carlton scowled. "Why should I trust you? I don't know you."
Rodney smiled at a woman staring at them as she walked past. "Evening," he said to her.
The woman looked him up and down, glanced at Carlton, and sniffed.
Rodney looked down and noticed the dirt and grease stains on his overcoat for the first time.
Rodney kept one hand on Carlton's arm and started walking. "My office isn't far from here." I think, he mentally added. Thanks to the fog, he wasn't entirely sure where he was. "We'll hole up there and figure out our next move."
